


Futility

by tease



Series: With a Heart so Weary [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Tim you are depressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:53:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tease/pseuds/tease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim quits the hero business, but can't quite stop himself for longing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Futility

Tim’s not used to this freedom.  Being able to stay in bed up to noon, moving with the speed of a snail to make brunch with whatever he bought at the nearest convenience store.

He has nothing to do.  Well not nothing, just nothing important, nothing that makes him hurry.

No urgency.

His apartment’s full of unpacked boxes, labeled with Alfred’s flowing, concise script, impersonal in their perfection, personal in that Alfred let him leave without a word.

His keystrokes echo throughout the apartment.

Reminds him of sounds bouncing around water slicked walls.  Screeching bats.

Tim's not lonely.  He's used to the quiet of working alone.  Bruce used to leave him all by himself, to figure out a puzzle, a riddle, that's not worth Batman's attention.

But the roaring quiet, the emptiness is disconcerting.

In the mansion, he'd have Alfred puttering about.  Asking him if he'd like a sandwich, a break, anything to help keep his energies up and his body happy.

Right now his back's telling him to stand, move, turn, bend, anything but sit still like he's been doing for the past eight hours.

Watching a recent news reel, a low resolution film of Batman standing alongside Superman, offering his presence as the Justice League gives a press release about a recent alien threat.

He misses the batcave's computers.  It had enough programs for him to fix the pixelation from the low quality shot.  He can't see the expression on Superman's face, much less anything from Batman, other than that silent, stiff backed stance.

He misses being able to see, hear, feel how Batman feels not moments after these big press releases.  How Bruce would be fired up, mouth in that sardonic grin, eyes alert and watching, but silent, keeping thoughts to himself until Tim’s curiosity makes him talk.

Memories past.

But all the same, he's interested.

His apartment's a blank canvas, filled with nothing but boxes surrounding his basic lonely bed and desktop.

The white, empty walls would drive Dick crazy.  He'd fill it up with as much pictures of his family, his friends, his  _life_.

Dick would make him fill it, if the older man knew where he's moved.  If he knew  _that_  he moved.

He doubts Bruce said anything, and Alfred wouldn't say anything without Dick asking.

Dick... Dick would be too distracted, too amped to notice him gone.

It's happened in the past.

And he can't find himself to care.

\-----------------

It takes him five more days to find out what to do with his walls and by the time he realizes  _what_  exactly he's doing, he can't help but laugh at himself.

This is familiar territory.  Comforting.

His boxes are unpacked, his new bookshelves stocked with study books he's previously powered through, but never enjoyed.  There was never enough time, never enough breathing space.

His floorspace taken up by a couch and coffee table of his choosing.

But those weren't important.  They functioned. Served  _their_  purpose.

The western wall, the wall adjacent to his bed, is covered in photos and news clippings.  News of Batman and Robin's current escapades, the close calls, the grateful citizens.

News of Nightwing's dauntless duty toGotham, always laughing, always in a relaxed pose with confidence shining so bright Tim smiles every time he looks at that group of photos. 

It reminds him of his pre-Robin days, following Batman and Robin's every action.  It makes him giddy that he could follow them, without following them.  That he could see where they fail to be the Dynamic Duo, it's in the defensive distant stance of Robin and the extreme downturn of Batman's lips.

And it distracts him from the locked suitcase under his bed.

Dick would expect him to hide secrets in his desktop.  He'd have a ball breaking through Tim's firewalls.  He'd be able to do it without even visiting.

No, Tim's learned to keep secrets physical, to hide it in the most obvious place.

The suitcase is nothing special; it's a remnant of  _his_  father's business.

The photos he's printed in it weren't either. 

Bruce in an over the top dressy gala, holding the hand of some unknown -he doesn't really care to know who- model.  Hand's on her shapely hips, neck within her own arms.

Bruce standing in front of the newly renovated Gotham Central Library, almost genuinely smiling, pleased that his money has helpedGotham once again.

Bruce frowning in a Wayne Industries meeting, white knuckled and jaw stiff.  Well that one he used Bruce's own installed cameras to take.

The photos themselves are nothing special.

Most of them are accessible online.

But the accusing creases around the edges.

The water marks reflecting, incriminating, on their surfaces.

Those remind him how much, in the middle of the night, he'd sit and touch those photos.

Staring.  Learning.

Think how much time he's spent, wasted spying on someone he can see with the turn of a key.

Fighting with the roiling, uneasy unhappiness eating at his heart, leaving a nasty feeling in his gut.

Wiping salty tears.

Bruce's smile in recent photos are less guarded.  His eyes surrounded with more wrinkles than Tim remembers.  Than Tim's memorized.

Feeling hot  red jealousy at Damian for finally starting to understand what Batman and Robin truly means.

Feeling green-eyed envy for Dick’s constant, expected,  _obvious_  place in Bruce’s life.

Distance.

Distance.

Distance

That's what he needs.

That’s why he left.

That’s why he  _needed_  to leave.

He breathes in, quells the queasy  _something_  attacking his sanity and picks up the only pristine, untouched object in the case.

Opening the note he found only a few days after he left with shaking, clammy fingers...

Feeling unbridled joy at the simple words “Come visit, please,” written,  _written_ , neatly across the embossed page...

He realizes.

It's made no difference at all. 


End file.
